By Jason D. DeHart
Spare a Dollar?
Now here is Mr. Brautigan, sitting on the sidewalk with his poems scribbled on fish-papers again. I picture him in rags, always. He says, I’m the beggar poet asking you to pay attention to a syllable, please listen to the way I wrap a word upon a word, all in this flimsy paper form. How I taste the twisting of a tongue upon the timbre of fiction, tune the ear. Listen close, be advised. Don’t mind the lingering effect of vinegar-soaked lunch. We are merely open mouths looking for someone to kiss with our observation. It’s all broken lines, wounds repositioned, a process of trying to procure a little praise for a line-up of thoughts. A word enters the mind and won’t leave until we’ve trapped in the light of a blank page, besmirched the earth again with what we call our modest gift. Won’t you read upon your pillow? Upon your windowsill? On the night you decide to lose it all? Linger for a word, love. Linger a moment longer, quietly, in this curling letter with me.
The Price: Found Poem from the News
More lives a pandemic now appears ready to pay. A grim plateau despite projections. Shift blame. Death toll. You have to be careful. Infections and forecasts, escalating the push. Optimistic take challenged, point fingers. See how your state stands.